Headmaster, I'm Pregnant
by richfamous
Summary: Hogwarts is a high school just like any other. Accidents happen. How will the various headmaster (and headmistresses) take up the challenge? Follow Dippet, Dumbledore, Umbridge, Snape and McGonagall as they each have to deal with the same problem. Mostly humour with maybe the tiniest bit of romance. Summaries are not my strong point. *drops mic*
1. Armando Dippet

Armando Dippet - 1952

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing save this plot bunny which stubbornly insisted on burrowing into my head.**

 **Rating: T just to be on the safe side.**

Headmaster Armando Dippet of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was very, very worried. He was more worried than he had been when the Riddle boy had left school, cold fury practically pouring out of his ears, more worried than when the Basilisk had been running rampant, closure of the school an imminent threat, more worried than when he had found out that Albus Dumbledore, a first class student and now a prefect, was running an underground mafia of chocolates, sweets, Muggle movies and a few of the tamer illegal animals (that demiguise was still to be caught and there had been a suspicious flying shape around the castle recently). As you can perhaps see, Armando Dippet worried _a lot_ but he had never been quite more worried in his life. Miss McGonagall had fainted.

Yes, you heard. Minerva McGonagall, whose middle names included Unstoppable, Iron-Spined and Shatterproof, had fainted dead away right in the middle of her favourite subject, Transfiguration. If it hadn't been for quick work on the part of Miss Hooch and Master Dumbledore, she might well have injured herself badly.

As it was, the school had watched in awe as the Honourable Miss Hardcore herself was levitated down to the Hospital Wing to have herself revived. Now Armando was fiddling back and forth with sheaves of paper, waiting for her to arrive. Usually even Armando would not have been fussed if it was another student. Some girls fainted a lot, almost every week: for attention, a chance to give their Prince Charming a chance to catch them or from dieting to the point of starvation. But Minerva did not need to play-act for attention, didn't care about or believe in Prince Charming and was in good physical condition and she knew it.

 _"There is one possible solution,"_ Madam Foxglove, the school matron had said, her tone grim, _"and that is not a pleasant one."_

 _"Surely not!"_ Armando had exclaimed, shocked beyond belief. _"Not Miss McGonagall."_

He repeated that over and over to himself, _Not Miss McGonagall, Not Miss McGonagall, Not Miss McGonagall_.

A crisp, "Excuse me," that bellied her age and recent episode broke him from his trance. Minerva was standing in the doorway to his office looking at him with what appeared to be concern.

"Ah, yes. Come in!" said Armando, remembering himself finally and gesturing for her to pick one of the many chairs that were scattered towards the extremities of his room. He watched her as she dragged the nearest one (hard, polished oak) opposite him and sat down, crossing her legs elegantly and clasping her hands over her upper knee. She didn't _look_ any different, her expression placid and concentrated, her long black hair in its usual black braid. A little pale, perhaps, but then she had always had a pale complexion. She appeared to be as slim as she had ever been, though the looseness of her robes might be hiding something.

"Headmaster Dippet, are you quite well?" Miss McGonagall asked. She was definitely looking at him with concern now.

"Wait, what?" Armando asked, startling himself out of his inner ponderings.

Minerva pursed her lips together the way she did when she was forced to explain an overly simple fact to a fellow student for the second time over. "You seem a little preoccupied, Headmaster. I was knocking at your door for a good five minutes before I let myself in and you've done nothing but stare at me for the past five. I don't have anything on my face do I?"

She said that last line with a trace of humour, smiling a little as she did so. And Armando, who had been studying her face carefully for any trace of ... anything ... saw it. Even to the well-trained eye it is nothing but the slightest shift in the skin. Like there is a haze of colour over it. He had seen it before. On boys trying to cover cuts and bruises on their faces after fighting each other (or something rather more feral). Girls trying to get rid of the red marks on their necks before teachers saw. Glamour charms.

So, smiling as pleasantly as he could, Armando paused, as though to rifle through his now thoroughly disarrayed papers (watched by the increasingly amused eyes of Minerva McGonagall) and softly whispered the anti-glamour charm. It would take a few minutes to take effect properly and during those few minutes he would have to keep up some semblance of a proper conversation.

"I was merely worried, Miss McGonagall. In all the six years that you have lived here, you have not fainted once that I know of, least of all in your _favourite_ class. I was wondering if anything was wrong."

Minerva smiled charmingly and said, "I assure you, Headmaster, that I am perfectly healthy."

Armando nodded. "Of course. That's what perfectly healthy people do. Collapse in their favourite class." Then another thought occured to him as he looked at her face, the glamour now fading away. "Is the workload catching up on you, Miss McGonagall? I know that it is just the year before NEWTs but there is no reason to exhaust yourself." He was clutching at straws here and he knew it. Minerva could drum up an essay on just about any subject in the universe (aside from maybe Divination) in about twenty minutes flat.

Minerva smiled once more. "I agree, Headmaster, the workload has increased this year. But I am perfectly capable of dealing with it and I can assure you that I am nowhere near overworked. Poppy and Albus wouldn't let me. And of course there's Quidditch, of course."

At that Armando could not help but smile. Ah, yes. Quidditch. The girl would play the game in a cyclone and when Gryffindor's main players had been out of action in her fourth year, Minerva's cry of, "You can't cancel _Quidditch!_ " had inspired Gryffindor to rustle up some extras and, despite the odds enormously against them (in both weather and skill) they had triumphed. And yet she had insisted on maintaining her position as Chaser in the team instead of being elected as Captain, as the greater populace of her House would have wanted.

A half-imagined scuffling noise from behind his door shook Armando out of musings of his student's excellence and focused on the task at hand, ignoring the half-formed sounds behind the thick wood. "Then what, Miss McGonagall, is the cause of this sudden episode?" There were definite noises coming from the other side of his door and they were beginning to annoy him.

"You make it sound like I had a fit, Headmaster." Then, seeing that he was serious, she cleared her throat and said, "I must have eaten something that disagreed with me last night, sir."

Armando raised an eyebrow. "And I suppose this mystery parasite also sucked the sleep out of you, made you cry spontaneously," - there was a bang on his door, no doubt one of the more rambunctious House Elves playing a trick on him and he frowned slightly - "(I'm thinking onions personally), bit your nails and," - he glanced down at the sheet the matron had given him - "resulted in you being sick on Tuesday last week halfway through Quidditch practice and developing a craving for peaches and ... ginger newts?"

"They're biscuits," Minerva offered, speaking very softly now.

Armando, resisting the urge to ask more after these mystery biscuits, focused himself. Now that Minerva's face was devoid of glamour he could clearly see. Her eyes were slightly red and had black smudges underneath them. She was indeed paler than usual and her hands, the knuckles now going white as they gripped her knee more tightly, had the nails bitten right down to the beds. He'd seen that picture before, he thought with a sinking heart. Ignoring the rattling on his door, he pushed on.

"Is there anything you want to tell me, Miss McGonagall?"

For a few moments Minerva stared at the floor, looking utterly defeated. Then she raised her head, tossing her loose braid of black hair out of the way and straightened her back, staring him straight in the eye. "Headmaster, I'm pregnant. Congratulations on being the first to know."

 _Thud!_

"Quiet, I'm having a meeting!" Armando yelled at the door before turning back to Minerva. "You realise what a problem this is. Your parents ... the other students ... it is hardly good for your reputation or the school's."

"I know," said Minerva, not even blinking. It was clear that she had thought this through in detail. No doubt the result of the red eyes and the gaunt, sleepless look.

"I have to ask," said Armando, Ravenclaw curiosity getting the better of him, "who _is_ the father?"

For a moment Minerva seemed knocked off balance. But just for a moment. "I'll tell you, but only if you promise not to make him suffer for it." Armando nodded, ignoring the obvious scuffling sounds going on outside. "Very well, it's Septimus Weas -"

"Me!"

The door to Armando's office had finally burst open and a tall, lean boy with a shock of auburn hair had landed on his front on the floor. Slowly he raised his head to reveal a good-natured, slightly childish face with twinkling, piercing blue eyes that had often reminded Armando of a some mischievous little puck or forest fairy. "It was my fault," said Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore with the same tone of voice that he had used to proclaim his guilt for accidentally letting loose a hippogriff when he was in first year.

"Albus!" exclaimed Minerva, her voice an interesting blend of anger, concern and relief. She leapt to her feet and ran to his side to pull him up. Then, turning to the doorway. "Rolanda, you were supposed to hold him!"

"I tried!" exclaimed her best friend's voice, as the shorter witch came into the room, her face mottled with bruises and one tooth looking suspiciously crooked. But that wasn't nearly the worst problem. "He jinxed me!" she exclaimed, sounding like a six-year-old. And then, in her threatening, booming, Quidditch commentator voice, "I demand a duel!"

But everyone, Armando included, was too busy staring at her with open mouths. For Rolanda's usual, soap-blue eyes were gone, replaced, with sharp, hawk-like yellow ones.

"Albus, what did you do?" Minerva gasped, eyes wide with horror.

"I don't know!" exclaimed Albus, throwing his hands in the air in a display of theatrical despair. "I jabbed my wand in her face and said something!"

"Well what were you trying to do?" Minerva snapped.

"I ... I was trying to turn her into a bird I think. Something harmless ... Yes, a robin!"

"Robin's aren't harmless," Rolanda snapped. "Once one attacked my family dog when she was a puppy."

"I'm sure your puppy did something to deserve it," grumbled Albus.

Yellow eyes boiling with rage, Rolanda leapt forward and gave Albus a sharp crack on the nose that sent him reeling. "Hey!" shouted, Minerva, snatching her friend back. "You're making it worse!"

Albus's long nose, which had been knocked rather crooked by his rather harsh landing on the floor had now been set at an even more obscure angle after making contact with Rolanda's prolific boxing talent. Now he stood in the middle of the Headmaster's office with both hands over his thoroughly bloody nose and said, "Ow."

Suddenly remembering his position in the school, Armando leapt out of his trance and said, "Master Dumbledore, Miss Hooch and Miss McGonagall, please seat yourselves."

"Hey!" exclaimed Rolanda. "What d'you want me for? I've been very careful not to get pregnant!"

"Ro," Minerva groaned, helping Albus to his seat and handing him a handkerchief to deal with his bleeding nose.

"I'll sit," said Rolanda meekly, plonking herself with great obnoxiousness and little elegance into the biggest chair she could find.

"Show-off," Albus muttered into Minerva's handkerchief.

"Says the boy who tried to turn me into a robin!" shot back Rolanda.

"Children, please!"

All three turned to face Armando who sighed, rubbed his hand down his faced and looked at them again before saying, "Let me get this straight, Miss McGonagall. You're pregnant because of ... him?"

"Him has a name," said Minerva tartly.

"Sssh, Minnie," said Albus. "If the old man wants to be in denial let him be in denial. If he doesn't say my name then some part of his brain will still be able to think that it isn't true." Clearly the loss of blood to the nose was impairing the filter on Albus's mouth; Armando decided to make this as quick as possible so all three could get down to the Hospital Wing.

"Just answer the question, Miss McGonagall."

"Yes," said Minerva, the defiance still in her tone.

Armando sighed. "So then why did you try to pawn it off on poor old Weasley?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Albus, now sounding slightly affronted. "Why does he get credit for my good work?"

Rolanda snorted.

"Because," said Minerva, ignoring her boyfriend's outburst, "I made you, Headmaster, promise not to make trouble for the boy and even if it did get out, the Weasleys have done a great deal worse things throughout their family history and he wouldn't give me away."

"And," said Rolanda, with grim satisfaction, "since they both have red hair, what can go wrong?"

"Shut up!" Minerva snapped. Then, to Armando, "Are we done yet?"

"Note quite," said Armando, leaning closer. "What are you going to do now, Minerva?"

The fact that he had used her first name seemed to drive the question deeper. Minerva was silent, pondering. Then, once more, she raised her head and stared at him defiantly. "I'm going to tell my parents that I'm pregnant and they're going to have to deal with it. I'm going to finish my NEWTs and then I'm going to get a job. That sound good?"

"You're not going to leave school?" Armando asked. "Not even to take care of the baby?"

Minerva smiled, rising to signify that this conversation was over. "I'll manage, Headmaster. You'll see."

The question was not of her managing. It was a question of _him_ managing. He knew from personal experience that pregnant woman can be very emotional and knowing Minerva she would probably lean towards anger on the emotional scale and he had quite enough troubles without having the Hospital Wing full.

"But, Miss McGonagall -"

"She's right," said Albus, rising, his nose still clutched in his girlfriend's handkerchief and putting an arm around her shoulder. "I'm going to help."

"The day I leave you alone with a baby you will know that Armageddon has come!" Minerva exclaimed.

"Fair point," said Albus. "And Fawkes mightn't like someone else getting affection."

"He already doesn't like me for that," said Minerva sourly.

"He'll get over it," said Albus, giving her a quick squeeze around the shoulders.

"Who or what is Fawkes?" Armando asked.

Albus opened his mouth to answer but was abruptly cut off by Minerva. "His ... owl, Headmaster."

Albus looked at Minerva for a second and then said, "Back to babysitting duties." Then, turning to the final person in the room: "Hooch, what about it?"

Rolanda glared at him a moment before rising with a sigh and saying, "Fine! We'll help!"

"We?" Armando asked.

"We," said Rolanda, making a broad gesture that encompassed the whole room. "Me, Poppy, Pomona, Weasley, Lovegood, Augusta - Montigal not Malfoy - you know, the one with the horrible fashion sense, Black -"

"Black?" Minerva spluttered, wondering if letting Cassiopeia Black near a young child was a good idea. "She doesn't even like me."

"Oh, but you haven't seen her with her little cousins. So adorable."

Albus fixed Rolanda with a stern stare. "Hooch, I thought we agreed that spying was bad."

"But it's so fun!" complained Rolanda, bright yellow eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Alright, you lot, off you go!" said Armando, waving them away. But all the way down the stairs he could hear them talking.

"My parents are going to kill me."

"Mine too."

"Albus, in case you didn't notice, you're not having a baby. I am. You're not in trouble."

"But I will be. My parents don't take any more kindly to children out of wedlock than yours."

"Albus, you're not saying you're going to tell them!"

"Why not? You're always saying that I need to take more responsibility for my actions."

"Yes! And you've taken more than enough responsibility for one day!"

"It's mine too, Min. You didn't make it all by yourself."

"Fine, but don't blame me if both our mothers have fits. And my father is going to give you _The Talk._ "

"Min, I know -"

"Not _that_ Talk you daft dumpling, the _Don't Touch My Daughter On Pain Of Death Talk_."

"He's a bit late for that."

"Shut up, Ro, nobody loves you."

"What do you think we should call it?"

"How about Idiocy Accident McGonagall?"

"Rolanda!"

"What about if it's a girl? Ssh, Min, this is fun. Ow."

"I was thinking of that for a girl's name, Dumbles."

"It's worth considering. Could be for either gender. Though you'll have to change the last name to Dumbledore."

"Why?"

"That's usually what happens when people get married, Rolanda."

"Oh, _cool!_ Can I be the bridesmaid? No, no, you can let Pomona and Poppy squabble over that. _I'm_ going to fly around the church doing an embarrassing commentary. Yes!"

"You need to pick your friends more wisely, Min."

"Tell me something I don't know, Albus."

"You look terrible."

"Apply water to the burned area."

"Shut up, Ro! Thanks Albus, but I knew that."

"Seriously, Min, what are we going to call it?"

"I don't know, maybe we could name it after your mother ..."

"No, Min. Promise me one thing, you are _not_ naming it after _my_ mother. Never."

"Albus, let go of me. I like that arm. Fine, I'll promise. But we're not naming it after mine either."

"Who's to say it'll be a girl?"

"One gender at a time, Hooch."

"Fine. How about Idiocy Ariana Accident Dumbledore. Has a ring to it, don't you think?"

"I hope you never get to be a parent, Ro."

"Me too, Min. Seems an awfully stressful experience by the looks of things."

"Albus, why are you looking at me like that? What's funny?"

"I've go the perfect name!"

"Oh, help me."

"Foolish Ariana Accident?"

"Shut up, Ro. Go on, Albus."

"Amortia Ariana Dumbledore."

"Oh, like the love potion!"

"Help me."

"Wait, I'm not done. If it's a boy we can call him Fawkes."

"No. No. You listen to me Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, you will never, never ever name any child of mine after a _bird!_ "

"He bursts into flame, Min!"

"Yes, and he's a fire hazard to this school!"

"After all the burns it's suffered since the moment you stepped inside the door Min, I don't think a phoenix would make much difference."

 _No wonder the Astronomy Tower caught fire last month_ , Armando Dippet thought with a sigh. _There's a bloody phoenix in the school._

...

...

...

 _I need a drink._

 **Yes, I know I probably messed around with a load of people's ages without realising it, mainly Rolanda and Dumbledore. But this was too funny for my mischievous brain to resist and the idea of Albus as a student could not be bypassed.**

 **I'm going to do one chapter for each other other Hogwarts Headmasters/mistresses from then to the present. Be prepared for much ridiculousness, messing around in time periods and probably more than a few made-up relationships.**

 **Next time, let's see how Albus handles it from the other side of the Headmaster's desk. Want to guess who the next unlucky people to be asked the question will be? By all means let me know what you think in a review!**


	2. Albus Dumbledore - Part 1

Albus Dumbledore Part 1 - 1972

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing but the demons which drive me to express such unadulterated drivel in writing. At least I think I own them.**

 **Rating: T for real this time because of swearing and references to that thing which my parents should not being doing at my age.**

 **Warning: If you don't like inter-house unity, ridiculously unrealistic situations and running off into the sunset with rainbows and unicorns don't read any of my stories.**

Arthur Weasley sighed as he stepped into the Room of Requirement. It had all the things that he needed: a squashy sofa much like the ones in the Gryffindor Common Room, a bookshelf full of every tome and magazine that had anything to do with Muggles and two large mugs of hot chocolate. Molly liked hot chocolate. Especially when she was upset. Arthur sighed again. Molly had been acting extremely strangely for the past two weeks - constantly running to the girls' bathrooms, barely touching her food one meal and attacking it like a bloodhound the next, being jumpy and nervous, not at all like her usual assertive self, as though she was doing something she shouldn't and was afraid of being caught. He had expressed this sentiment to Sirius while they were playing Quidditch in their free time but the only response he had gotten was, "Maybe the thing she's worried about doing is you." He'd given Sirius a Quaffle in the head for that one.

He was suddenly aware that he'd been sitting in silence for a while now and he checked his watch (wonderful Muggle device). Molly had said to meet him at nine o'clock and it was already quarter past. Molly Prewett was many things but late was not one of them.

Just then he heard footsteps outside. They were brisk, but so measured and exact, so regimental that they practically screamed pureblood supremacist. The footsteps came to a halt outside the door and a few extra things appeared in the room. Another sofa, though rather more ornate than Arthur's chosen one, a pair of knitting needles and yarn (of such vertigo-inducing colour that the headmaster would have been proud) and, bizarrely, a large, white peacock.

The last materialized right in Arthur's lap and he could not help letting out a yell of surprise, batting the bird away with his hands so that it flew to one side with an indignant and haughty squawk. Silence from outside. Then, slowly, the door inched open, followed by a long, thin wand and then by the tall silhouette of ...

"Malfoy!"

"Weasley!"

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?!" they both shouted at the same time.

They stared at each other in silence after that, like two territorial tigers readying for a fight. Lucius had always looked down on Arthur Weasley, and the fact that he was, at this moment, dressed in a pair of pyjamas that looked like they had survived hell and World War III did not in anyway improve this sentiment. However, it had to be admitted that, with flaming eyes and his shock of red hair, the Weasley did look rather threatening.

Arthur, on the other hand, was struggling to suppress the irresistible urge to laugh. Admittedly, Lucius was tall and intimidating but clearly worry, or maybe just sleep, did nothing good for Lucius's hair. It was sticking out at every possible angle and, on top of it all, the Malfoy heir was wearing some very fetching green and white striped pyjamas which reminded Arthur of Christmas candy.

Lucius was the first to break the stalemate. "I'm a prefect, Weasley. I can dock more points than you're going to have grandchildren and have you in detention for the rest of the year."

"I agree," Arthur shot back. "However, you can only do that if you're out on your drills which I most definitely know you are not tonight."

He was taking a stab in the dark and he knew it. However, he was fairly sure that no one, least of all a Malfoy, did their rounds in _pyjamas_. He was still deeply surprised when Lucius sighed and collapsed with a sort of exhausted elegance onto his chosen sofa. "Fine, Weasley," he said grimly. "You can't give me away and I can't give you away. Now tell me what, in the name of Merlin's curling toenails, are you doing here?"

"Hey, why do I have to go first?" Arthur snapped. One could not afford to give away secrets to a Malfoy without considerable leverage.

"Fine," said Lucius, "if you're going to be touchy about it _I'll_ go first. I'm here to see a girl."

"Don't you need a bed for that?" Arthur asked snidely.

Lucius fixed him with an icy stare. "No," he said. "I need these." He held up the knitting needles. Then, at Arthur's confused look, "She likes to knit when she's aggravated."

"Well if she knows you I'm not surprised," said Arthur.

Lucius scowled at him and then said, "So, why are _you_ here, Weasley?"

"Molly wanted to talk," Arthur told him crisply.

"And she couldn't do it in the Common Room like a normal witch?" said Lucius with a raised eyebrow.

"And I suppose Miss Black can't find yarn and knitting needles in the whole of the Wizarding World?" Arthur shot back.

Lucius narrowed his eyes at that. "What would make you think it was one of the Black sisters?" he asked warily.

"Oh, come off it, Malfoy! Everyone knows you and the youngest have been dating since the beginning of her fourth year!"

" _Every_ one?" Lucius asked, looking so mortified that Arthur felt sorry for him.

"I'll say it again. Come off it, Malfoy! It can't be that bad. If everyone knows that means that somewhere, in that frozen, glacial wasteland that is your heart, there is a little patch of affection and warmth. Isn't that good?"

"No," said Lucius, after taking a few minutes to recover from Arthur's speech.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Of course. I forgot. Malfoy Rule Number 15: Malfoys must never show any sign of warmth or affection to anyone."

Lucius, who had been staring with a look of concentration at the peacock, spun around and said, "How did you know? Well, it's Rule Number 13 but how did you know?"

"Lucky guess," said Arthur with a shrug. "Besides. It's no problem. I'm sure even Malfoys are allowed to have girlfriends."

"Yes," said Lucius grimly. "But only if they're the same girl as you're supposed to marry."

Arthur's eyebrows leapt up at that. "'Supposed to marry'? What is this - the Middle Ages? It's the twentieth century for Godric's sake!" When Lucius did not respond he let curiosity get the better of him and asked, "So ... who are you 'supposed to marry'?"

"Bellatrix Black," said Lucius shortly.

"What?" Arthur was genuinely shocked. "But you can't marry her. She's crazy! She'll bite your lip off on your wedding day, you'll see! She's off her rocker!"

"Oh, you noticed did you," said Lucius sarcastically. Then, "Are you drinking that?" he asked, pointing his wand at the hot chocolate next to Arthur.

"No, no," said Arthur distractedly. "Drink up." Lucius levitated the cup over to his sofa and took a swig, looking as though he wished it was something rather more alcoholic. "Surely you can fight your father on it?" Arthur asked, wondering why in hell he was concerned with the well-being of _Malfoy_ of all people.

"I tried," said Lucius bitterly, equally bewildered as to why he was having this conversation with _Weasley_. "Once."

"I take it that particular conversation didn't end well," Arthur observed.

Lucius snorted with laughter. "I would hardly call it a conversation, Weasley. After the first sentence I barely got a word in edgewise."

"But it can't matter _that_ much," said Arthur. "I mean, Bellatrix and Narcissa are part of the same family. Either way your father gets the great privilege of marrying into the Black family. And everybody's happy."

"I don't think he sees it that way," said Lucius. "Sometimes I think he's like a horse." Then, seeing Arthur's confused expression. "You know, with the blinkers on and everything."

It was Arthur's turn to snort with laughter but they both soon fell into thought, Lucius moodily swirling his hot chocolate around. "You know," said Arthur, "I know you're probably not going to listen to me on this and I haven't a clue why in Merlin's name I care but you should try fighting your father on this one, Malfoy. You're not going to have to fight for many things in your life. You may as well fight for this."

"Cheers," Lucius drawled, but there was a thoughtful look in his eyes. "So," he said, in a lighter tone, "does your _venerable_ father know about you and Prewett?"

"Not yet," said Arthur, shifting uncomfortably. "But I think he'd be chuffed. He'd love the fact that we both have the same colour hair."

Lucius let out a short bark of laughter at that. "I wish my father was so easily impressed by such simple things as hair colour!"

"Tell me about it!" exclaimed Arthur. "You and Narcissa would be a perfect couple to him then!"

After that, the conversation rapidly derailed to the point where they were talking as though they had been friends for years. Complaining about homework, discussing Quidditch and, of course, making fun of each other's houses. It was a great while before Arthur finally asked the burning question. "Malfoy, why, by Merlin's nostril hairs, is there a white peacock in the room?"

Lucius glowered at the bird, which had been strutting imperiously around the room while they talked and, sensing that it had finally obtained their full attention, spread its feathers majestically. "Well," said Lucius grimly, but with a faint gleam in his eyes, "a couple of days ago, Cissa got rather fed up with me. She thought I'd called her fat though really I said nothing of the sort and when I tried to defend myself she turned me into a white peacock. I guess the thought must have been fresh in my mind because I definitely do not require the daft bird."

"Strange, that," said Arthur, "Narcissa doesn't strike me as the 'turn her boyfriend into a bird' type."

"She isn't," said Lucius. "Well, usually. But this last week or so she's been acting really strangely. Changes mood at the click of your fingers. Doesn't seem able to concentrate in class. And she's suddenly started eating a lot of peaches. I can't quite understand what's going on and at this point I'm too scared to ask."

"Strange," said Arthur, "Molly's been the same way. Well, not quite the same. But she's been acting strangely as well. She actually hit me last week. She _is_ the 'turn her boyfriend into a bird' type but she isn't the 'hit her boyfriend' type."

They were both silent for a while, pondering, as all boys do at some point in their lives, how strange girls are. Finally Lucius said, "Speaking of girlfriends, where _are_ they? Cissa and I were supposed to meet at nine."

"Molly and me too," said Arthur. He checked his watch and exclaimed, "Blimey! It's ten o'clock! Where _are_ they?"

"Maybe they've been caught out," Lucius said, getting to his feet.

"Well then we'd better find them quickly!" said Arthur.

"I know," said Lucius. "I'm not sure whether any of our teachers would suit the bird look."

oo0oo

Narcissa had left the Slytherin Common Room in perfect time to meet Lucius. Unfortunately, while on the way up a particularly long flight of stairs, she had been overpowered by the urge to vomit. Thus she found herself in the girls' bathrooms, hurling the contents of her stomach into the same toilet that a Gryffindor had tried to shove her head in back in first year. The Gryffindor had regretted it.

When she had finally emptied her stomach of its contents she remained crouched over the toilet, trying to breath and generally hating life. What was wrong with her? Everything had been fine until last Monday when she had felt suddenly and unreasonably sick. Suddenly peaches, a fruit which she had never borne a particular attachment to, were the most wonderful things imaginable. And on top of that, her mood seemed to change at the flip of a button. One moment she was fine, the next she wanted to set the world alight, the next she felt like lying on the floor and crying and the next she just wanted to _eat_. She couldn't understand it. Narcissa Black had _always_ been in control. Apart from that time Bellatrix tried to hex her in third year but that was about it. She sighed, trying to pick herself up, legs shaking and arms weak. It was then that she heard these words.

"Damn you to hell, Arthur Billius Weasley!"

Narcissa frowned. She had heard that voice somewhere. Steadying herself against the stall wall she straightened her dark green dressing gown, redid her ponytail and stepped out.

Standing - or rather leaning - against one of the sinks was Molly Prewett, one hand clasped over her mouth and the other holding some narrow, white instrument which Narcissa had never seen. She looked as though she was crying.

"Are you alright?" Narcissa asked, wondering why, in the name of Merlin's burnt pancakes she cared.

Molly jumped a foot in the air and hid the white thing behind her back. "I ... I'm perfectly fine ... I just ..."

"You look as if you're going to be sick," Narcissa observed, wondering when she had become so blunt.

"How observant of you," said Molly, before running into the nearest stall.

Normally now would have been the time that Narcissa made a run for it. But her curiosity and ... some other emotion that she couldn't name, got the better of her. She followed Molly into the stall and sat down next to her, daring to lay one hand on her should and waiting for her stomach to empty.

Finally, Molly's face emerged, pale, with red-rimmed eyes. Narcissa wondered if she looked just as awful. "I just want to kill something," Molly groaned, rubbing her eyes.

Narcissa offered her a small smile and said, "So, what's the little white object you're trying to hide from me?"

"What object?" Molly asked, with obviously faked innocence.

Narcissa raised an eyebrow and, grabbing Molly by the elbows, helped her to her feet. "You aren't very good at being mysterious, Prewett. You've got it in your hand right now, I can see it."

Molly gave up at that. "Fine," she said, "it's a Muggle device for testing whether you're pregnant or not."

Narcissa stared at her for a moment, as though not comprehending. "They can do that?" she asked, incredulous. Molly nodded. Well, maybe Muggles were smarter than she had initially thought. "Where did you get it?"

"From Lily," said Molly. Then, upon seeing Narcissa's blank expression. "Evans. The Muggle-Born. She and I are in the same dorm room."

"Oh," said Narcissa. "And? What does it say?"

"You haven't guessed yet?" said Molly bitterly. But nonetheless, she held it out, resting her finger next to the important piece of information. A little, innocent pink plus.

"That's positive, right?" said Narcissa.

"You bet," said Molly.

"What's positive about being pregnant at sixteen?" Narcissa asked.

Molly shrugged. "As far as I've seen, nothing. Although I don't think your parents are going to be chuffed about you either. How old are you?"

"Sixteen," said Narcissa. "I'm one of the oldest people in my year. What do you mean my parents won't be ..." Suddenly it hit her. As if struck by a physical blow, Narcissa sat down on the toilet, completely overcome by shock. "Oh, Merlin no." Then, suddenly overcome by anger, "Go to hell, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy!"

"It's _his_ _?_ " Now it was Molly's turn to sit down but, since the toilet was taken, she was forced to sit on the floor.

"Who else's is it going to be?" Narcissa asked, budging over on the seat so that there was room for Molly. "He is my boyfriend."

"Yes," said Molly, taking the proffered seat, "I just didn't think that he would be the sort who ... you know ... did that?"

Narcissa couldn't help one corner of her mouth from quirking up into a half smile. "He'd have to 'do that' as you put it if he ever wanted an heir."

"Well I'm pretty sure he didn't want an heir before either you or he are out of school. You're doing OWLs this year for Godric's sake!"

"And you're doing NEWTs next year," put in Narcissa gloomily.

There was silence after that, followed by both saying at the same time, "Bloody boys!"

A few giggles followed this and then Molly turned to Narcissa and said, "Are you hungry?"

"Now that you mention it, yes, I'm starving," said Narcissa. "Where are we going to get food?"

"Where do you think?" exclaimed Molly, suddenly cheerful. "The kitchens!"

oo0oo

"So, how did you and Prewett end up doing the unmentionable?" asked Lucius conversationally, as the two climbed the seemingly endless steps down to the Slytherin Common Room. They had already searched all the classrooms, the Gryffindor Common Room, argued over whether it was ethical to freeze the staircase to the girls' dormitory, narrowly avoided breaking legs when Lucius's jinx didn't last long enough, thoroughly confused Lily Evans, Alice Lendon, Niamh McMalin and Pandora Bolger by waking them from their sleep and demanding to know where Molly was and were now heading down to the Slytherin Common Room to repeat the process with Narcissa's roommates.

"I don't know, just happened," Arthur mumbled.

Lucius laughed at that. "Come on, Weasley. I'll tell you if you tell me. That way we've both got dirt on each other. Actually it'll mean you've got _more_ dirt on me since I'm not supposed to be sleeping with my future sister-in-law but go on."

"Well, I mean. She'd been sleeping in my bed for a while. Just sleeping. Stop looking at me like that, Malfoy! Just because you're dirty-minded doesn't mean we all do! And we were celebrating winning the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff."

"That was a tough one," Lucius agreed. "Damned Snitch didn't know where it was supposed to go."

"So she took me to one side and said that she'd got a little surprise for me and, well, I guess it just ... happened. Alright, now you tell!" said Arthur, thoroughly embarrassed.

"But I didn't get any details!" exclaimed Lucius with fake ire. "Mudblood scum," he said. Then, to Arthur's horrified face. "It's just the password!"

 _Though it really isn't just the password is it._

"Anyway," said Lucius, leading Arthur through the Common Room, "the fact is: it wasn't my idea. She put me up to it ... she _said_ she had a swimming costume on but I shouldn't have been fooled ..."

oo0oo

"And I'm supposed to marry Rodolphus Lestrange, you know," Narcissa said, around a mouthful of peach crumble.

"What?" exclaimed Molly, spraying juice over Narcissa's pyjamas.

Narcissa honestly couldn't care. Both girls had stolen cushions and blankets from their Common Rooms and were seated by the kitchen fire, surrounded by a bewildering array of food, discussing all that was wrong with their lives.

"Exactly!" said Narcissa, pouring another ladleful of cream over her crumble. "I mean, he's good-looking enough but he's so _serious_. He never laughs at anything and barely opens his mouth to do so much as talk. And he's brutal! You've seen him on the Quidditch pitch. I've no great liking for Gryffindor or anything but I do believe that smashing Potter's glasses constitutes as a foul. The boy had cuts all over his face from that."

"I know," said Molly. "I thought Sirius and Remus were going to kill him for that. It took all Arthur and my brothers could do to stop them from hexing him. Oh look, chocolate cake! Want some?"

"Nah, I've gone off it. What are your brothers going to think about you being pregnant?" Narcissa asked. She had eaten more than her fill and was now burrowing deeper into her blankets.

"Oh, they're going to kill Arthur," said Molly grimly. "I bet they'll corner him in the dungeons and make him swear an oath that he'll never so much as look at me again."

Narcissa laughed at that. "That's nothing compared to what Bellatrix would do to Lucius. I don't think she'd mind so much that Lucius was my boyfriend - I don't think she's into his type. She's always had a thing for older pale men with strange voices. But she would loath him for doing anything so horrible as _kiss_ me let alone ... have relations."

"What a wonderful way to put it," said Molly drily, digging into the chocolate cake with what appeared to be a soup spoon.

There was silence for a while as Molly devoured the cake and Narcissa stared up at the ceiling, her expression slowly becoming more and more agitated. Finally she asked, despair creeping into her voice, the question that Blacks are never supposed to ask, especially not to Muggle-lovers. "What should I _do?_ "

Molly took a moment to take in the meaning of the question and then scooted over to sit next to the youngest Black and put an arm around her. "I think that you should do whatever you think best. But whatever you do, I think you should engineer it so that you end up with the man you want."

"But how?" Narcissa asked.

"I don't know," Molly sighed. "I'm a simple Prewett. You're a Black. Your lot have spent their lives hexing and lying and back-stabbing each other and everyone else."

"Thanks," said Narcissa sarcastically.

"You are most gracefully welcome."

"You don't strike me as the graceful type, Prewett."

"You don't strike me as the gorging-yourself-on-peaches type, Black."

"Touche."

oo0oo

Pomona Sprout was not, by nature, an early riser. On the contrary, she was the kind of person who would cheerfully sleep to midday and have breakfast in bed. But today she woke up at the crisp and alien hour of six o'clock in the morning and headed down to the kitchens for a nice cup of strong, black coffee, cursing Minerva for challenging her to the bet. _Gryffindors and their winning complexes!_ As she arrived she was greeted by a cheerful, "Good morning, Pomona!"

Turning, she saw Horace Slughorn, head of Slytherin House, seated at a table by the fire and surrounded by a gaggle of House Elves who he appeared to be teaching the finer points of brewing Liquid Luck. "Min still not up yet?" Pomona asked. Horace had said that the potion tended not to work sometimes and she was still worried. Ten galleons was a _lot._

"No," said Horace with a grin, pushing a mug of already made coffee towards her. "Still snoozing away. Met Albus on his walk round the lake and he told me."

"Oh dear, is he worried?" Pomona asked, instantly concerned.

"Not at all," said Horace, grinning even more broadly. "He finds it rather amusing actually." The man found everything amusing. "He told me to 'Give my best regards to Pomona'."

"Oh, but that means he knows!" exclaimed Pomona.

"Of course he knows. Everyone from here down to London knows that Minerva will wake up at five o'clock in the morning the day the world ends. Not before, not after. What, Pomona?" The Head of Hufflepuff House was looking with great concentration _behind_ him. "What is it, Pomona? Do I have something on my back?"

"No," said Pomona, looking somewhat confused, "it's just that ... did you notice anything strange when you came in here?"

"No," said Horace. "Why?"

"You might want to get your eyes checked, Horace," said Pomona, getting up from her seat and walking over to the fire.

"Merlin's earmuffs!" exclaimed Horace, jaw dropping.

Two girls were curled up next to the fire, one short and a little plump with a thick braid of red hair, wrapped in a Gryffindor blanket while the other was tall and pale, her face distorted by a sheet of golden-blonde and swathed in a Slytherin blanket. Pomona leaned down and gave each of them a gentle shake.

The Slytherin girl opened one ocean blue eye and said, "Go away," very crisply, before closing it again.

The Gryffindor girl grumbled something along the lines of, "Alright, getting up," and then rolled over into a deeper sleep.

"Well," said Horace Slughorn, "looks like giving Min a sleeping draught wasn't such a good idea after all."

oo0oo

Rolanda Hooch, on the other hand, was an early riser, though not as quite an early cat as Minerva, rising somewhere between quarter to six and half past seven. Today she leaned more towards the six o'clock end of the scale but Rolanda really hadn't a clue, the clock was all a blur in the mornings, like everything else. As usual, she flew around the Quidditch pitch, letting the cold air wash over her and whip the strands of her hair (she was thinking of getting it cut, much more practical). However, today, her hawk-sharp eyes (Albus's jinx had proved to be irremovable) caught a few strange things. Various bits of Quidditch uniform were littered around the pitch. A Quaffle rolled mournfully along the ground. A Bludger narrowly missed her head. There was no sign of the Snitch in sight but then that was normal, even when it was actually there.

It was as she circled nearer the ground that she found them. The two boys were leaning against the middle goal post looking totally exhausted. The one was tall, broad and in a Slytherin Keeper's robes, lying prostrate on the ground and obviously exhausted but still gripping his broom. The other was almost as tall, rather skinnier and in a Gyffindor Beater's robes leaning in a rather more upright pose against the box but drooling slightly and his broom lying at his feet. Between them, tied by numerous multiply knotted strings to both their thumbs, was the Snitch, still struggling to get free.

Rolanda Hooch, also unlike Pomona, was not so gentle in her attempts to wake them up. Muttering, " _Sonorus_ ," she stood before them and, with her amplified voice, bellowed, "GET UP!"

Both Lucius and Arthur leapt to their feet as though the fiends of hell were after them, tried to run in different directions and promptly fell backwards due to the multiple (and now hopelessly tangled) strings which linked them both to the Snitch.

"What," Rolanda asked, trying to keep the amusement from her voice, "did you two do last night?"

"I didn't do anyone," said Lucius blearily. "How about you, Weasley?"

"Numph," muttered Arthur, for whom talking at this time in the morning was impossible.

Other teachers might have blushed at this frank exchange but Rolanda Hooch was not one of them. "I said what, Malfoy and Weasley, not who. Now explain, why are you on my Quidditch pitch at this ungodly time of the morning?"

"That explains why you're awake at this time," said Lucius. "I always wondered."

Rolanda stared at him for a moment, wondering whether he was being purposefully insulting or whether sleep destroyed his filter. Deciding to take it as a complement, Rolanda said, "Indeed Malfoy, now explain how you became attached to Weasley?"

"Well," said Lucius, with the air of one beginning a long and complicated story, "I went into the Room of Requirement and there's Weasley with a _white peacock_ , can you believe it -"

"No, I can't, Malfoy," said Rolanda. "You either need coffee or brain surgery. Weasley, explain."

"Played Quidditch," said Arthur shortly, before his head sunk back onto his chest and he began to slouch to the ground again. "Snitch got away. Caught it. Over and out." And just like that he was asleep again.

 **And by now a lot of you will be saying that the odds of the Weasleys and the Malfoys getting on is in the minus digits. What can I say? I'm a Hufflepuff with the idiocy of a Gryffindor, the curiosity of a Ravenclaw and the evil intentions of a Slytherin, meaning that I'm all for house unity. Also, if you think about it, the Weasleys and the Malfoys are essentially mirror images of each other - they aren't that different.**

 **Once again, I have no idea how much damage I have done to the timeline, all that I can guess is that I've made Harry's parents a lot older. Or maybe I've made Lucius and Narcissa younger? Oh well.**

 **Part 2 will be up soon and I hope you all enjoy it. :)**


End file.
